


Urge: an AU renbya lovefic.

by lyingfiend



Category: Bleach
Genre: AU, M/M, my usual weird
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-09
Updated: 2015-06-09
Packaged: 2018-04-03 15:43:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4106245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lyingfiend/pseuds/lyingfiend
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A meditation on the jagged coastline. This be more island-fic. Nissology. Shima no uta and mysterious strangers with no pasts only half-baked origins... Kinda mostly Byakuya POV.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Urge: an AU renbya lovefic.

**Author's Note:**

> So. I'm usually on LJ, but I thought I would try posting something here since I finally er, kinda finished writing something... Ask me questions? =)

Wrapping the edges of the untameable sea the limestone rises from the deep as a cliff, reaching ever higher into the blue sky unobtainable.

He walks along the coast barefoot, his leather Berlutis in one hand, the soles of his feet gripping the rock, his toes curling instinctively at each prick of pain when the sharpness digs into his flesh just barely cutting. The contours begin to mould themselves into the pattern of his skin. The layers begin to form on the sculpted underside of his unshod feet. They adjust to the rough terrain. He adjusts, to the wildness of the teeth that scrape at the sand.

As someone from the city--a world of concrete and glass--he is at once strong and hard, but brittle. Yet, the man is adaptable when the need calls for it.

Steadily the discomfort gives way, for the man has espied something in the distance: a solitary figure casting his nets into the water some interval from the shore. Attention caught, his mind refocuses, his concentration sharpens. Something in his belly has awakened.

Sleep will come later, he thinks, as he pursues his prey with a predator's hungry gait. The matter of rest is a secondary need. And so the man proceeds in a line unbroken, undistracted, intent. The wind from the sea howls like a dog in agony; a dog in heat, caught in the throes of longing. 

Is it the predetermined course that sends lonely men into the dripping jaws of even lonelier wolves? Or is it mercy that guides the hunter's hand when it drives the killing blow firmly into quivering mounds of flesh? Only the heart knows, only the soul, about what takes place in the forsaken part of the day, what is hidden from the sun and kept only by sleep, what is lulled into slumber by creatures of the night and devoured.

\--Ah, he sighs, as he tucks a black lock of hair behind his right ear. It is a sultry sound, soft and filled with satisfaction. The lonely fisherman is caught securely in his line of vision. But the languid movement of his slender fingers trace the strains of sorrow, drawing out the familiar pattern of the song that chases after.

\--Once again, to be led astray by desire.

_If it form the one landscape that we the inconstant ones_  
Are constantly homesick for, this is chiefly  
Because it dissolves in water. 

 

He was a baker of bread on weekends, and a painter of houses (if you asked nicely) on top of being a fisherman. This man, Renji, has many talents, which intrigues Byakuya as does his name, his red hair, his black stripes. The way he looks at him when he smiles, flashing eyes and canine teeth. Promising... promising the idea of promise itself. It is like standing on the edge of a cliff and hearing the limestone crumble. 

The stranger has left him at the top row of the wooden steps leading to his home chewing on a warm butter roll he had thoughtfully toasted. Something to stave the hunger, he had said with a wink before disappearing behind closed doors. The front facade doubled as the entrance to a little shop selling baked goods and Byakuya smiles again at the picture coming together in his head comprising the unexpected combination of the stranger's various trades and feels his pulse quicken at the unpredictable quality he anticipates their lovemaking will take on _later_.

Sooner, rather than later, Byakuya thinks with certainty. And certainly they will make love, because a stranger from the city will not wait indefinitely on the shores of the sea for an island man to return, no, not with salt on his suit and wind in his hair; no, not for innocent reasons. And neither will this man brought up on limestone pass over the chance to bed a man made tame by breeding, made beautiful by civility… Especially one that greeted him with the buttons of his shirt undone to the heart, and with eyes that feasted on him so openly. Those feasting eyes, so different for someone from the hinterland to have, for Byakuya is a man who is caged by lineage, not tamed. And he does not conceal his intentions when he comes out to this part of the country. He knew what words were carried to the fisherman as he stood silently in the water, seaweed floating around his ankles.

So he _is_ surprised when they do get down to doing it that very morning--in between Renji selling off his catch of mackerel and katsuo to the owner of another small shop, and popping a first batch of breads (an assortment of small loaves, batard to brioche) into the oven--while backed up against a red brick wall in the stranger's tiny living room, _but not for the reasons Byakuya anticipated_. For when Renji moves _into_ him, past the initial breach of muscle, he was in all manner of ways a gentleman: from the lubing up and the preparation, to the rolling on of the condom, to even asking eye to eye and tongue to teeth, "Can I, now?" with his eyebrow raised slightly, as though he would stop if Byakuya were to say No. As though he could, with the way he kept on pushing, pushing against Byakuya's body, against the brick wall, pushing; as though he could push the sky away, if he tried hard enough, from the furthest reaches of the horizon.

And when he moves _inside_ him... the man is as fiercely rhythmic as the rolling in of the tides, gentle, steady and powerfully reassuring.

Sweat runs downs Byakuya's thighs wrapped tightly around the strong waist of the brown-skinned fisherman, and his fingers dig into the muscles of an elaborately patterned back. He cannot see the tattoos from his current position but Byakuya can feel them underneath his fingertips and stitched onto the back of his eyelids from that morning when he had stood there on dry shore and looked toward the sea where the fisherman was in his boat bare-bodied, bathed in shadow and light. Lit up by the wick of a single oil lamp, his ink-stained musculature flexing as he worked both seduced and haunted. And his salt-encrusted body shining with sweat glistened with the flickering of one thousand moons, sending out a code like a scattering of diamonds.

"Renji," Byakuya breathes. "Renji… again… more…" he pleads, in time with Renji's laboured panting and the thump, thumping sound of the force of Renji's thrusts into him, and against the wall, and with the roar of the waves swelling in the distance and breaking onto the shore.

Like a beacon in the surrounding darkness the stranger's body then had contained a message for him boldly emblazoned there, singed into his skin: _Danger. Keep out. Turn back._ The words burning brightly, like a sinking ship on fire. To which Byakuya responded as one branded by the same demon, seeing the dead end (knowing its meaning) and feeling his pulse quicken; knowing the song (recognising its source) and hurling himself headlong: _Come here. Jump in. Die._ His mind cold and alert as he fell; his heart delirious.

His blood set aflame.

"Renji!" All he has is a name-- _fuck, fuck me harder_ \--which he clings onto and utters, over and over as he feels himself going under:

_Drown me._

_Until I can no longer breathe_.

That was why he had decided to make the approach; he had been baited into seeking out the shadow of unspoken promise. In the heated folds of the fisherman's flesh, in the secret system of caves and conduits, lay a spring, lay the promise of limestone: inconstant, wavering, dissolving. Wild, jagged and possessed by the unpredictable powerful surge, thrusting up as a spear to tear out a hole. A man brought up on limestone would expect no ties nor anything in return; he would take him violently for only one night--as limestone breaks off piece by piece, even from a cliff--and break him. He would use the island man to fulfill his own needs.

But that was not the case now. No, now, here, presently, there is no red flag, no warning sign. Had he chosen wrongly? For there is nothing Renji is doing now that will drive him to the edge of the cliff and the precipice _the way he wants to be_ , and can. And yet… _What is this?_ Byakuya cannot understand his arching back and catching breath, his cock straining towards the sky, his heartbeat chasing a dragon. His senses are alight, and everywhere is a quickening. The snap of Renji's hips slamming into him drown out his own voice, his own cries (all he has is his name, _Renji_ , _Renji_ , _Renji_ ). Stroke by controlled stroke _Renji_ moves, into him, hoisting him up, his large fisherman's hands support him every time the sweat makes him slip, which makes him wrap his thighs ever more tightly around the solid heft. Of rock. 

He grips harder. He holds on. He gathers Renji into himself, pressing bodies, moulding flesh, imprinting skin. 

How is he still driven to such madness _like this_? With Renji's face nuzzled in the crook of his neck, his wet breaths indistinguishable from the indulgence of his kisses. With Renji's hands… curled around his hipbone to buttress the force of his thrusts against the brick. Renji is holding him carefully, achingly tenderly. This is no animal gone berserk, unharnessed by its raging libido. This is no typhoon, no tsunami, no catastrophe. Renji is holding back and Byakuya is going wild. 

He cannot understand how he can still climb this mount of dazzling, dizzying delirium when he knows exactly where this stranger's sex is taking him: _to shore_ , with each roll of his hips, _bringing him to safety_. How this man… Why this way… _Yes… No… Again…_

 

Down by the water is the restless tide. Where the stones meet the sea. Where they cut his feet. This is how it is in Byakuya's mind. He takes apart his body by the water's edge; dismantling himself he spreads his legs to exchange sex for desire for something that can pass off for purpose. He reaches out; he searches. He holds out his beating heart that is empty of life. 

Spent and emptied. 

Is it true that a man can in one moment be both lonely and passionate? How does one who is warm understand one who is cold? What does it mean to love a form so different from your own?

What… What is this pounding? This punishing pace. This heartbeat. Bloodflood, spurting out everywhere, hewn from the rock with a touch, a command. How does he impart life as he takes me like this? How does he deny his island race; its blind voracity?

By the will of love, the thrill of love, the chill of love. 

\---- end? the last bit needs rewriting *sigh* ----

Notes:  
\+ W.H. Auden's 'In Praise of Limestone'; finally(!) i finish writing up this silly thing that i had to start after reading Auden's crazy writing  
\+ [Why Berluti shoes](http://parisiangentleman.co.uk/2013/11/13/pgs-recommendations-the-2013-shoes-edition/)  
\+ [Why mackerel and katsuo](http://theartoftravel.net/magazine/culture/excursions/sustainable-and-seasonal-fixed-net-fishing-in-the-noto-peninsula)  
\+ Ooh, I also shamelessly stole lines from 'Water's Edge' (Nick Cave And The Bad Seeds) and 'Graveyard' (Feist)


End file.
